


The Situation is Fraught

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Distress and Disarray [31]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rank Disparity, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 19:04:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18784282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Hamilton gets his hopes up.





	The Situation is Fraught

Hamilton is sincerely shocked to wake with Washington’s arms around him—not because he didn’t know his general would be returning to the ship, but because he sincerely expected Washington to rouse him. Whether by dint of arriving and making a perfectly reasonable amount of noise, or by deliberately ousting him.

But despite being a light sleeper under normal circumstances, Hamilton didn’t wake at the sound of the door or his general preparing for sleep—or when Washington slid into bed behind him—or at any point in the course of the night. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised at sleeping more soundly than usual. He’s gotten very little rest over the past several days—less than he will ever admit—but it’s not his fault. He’s been a walking disaster of directionless energy through the entire duration of his general’s absence.

Never mind the frequent comm contact, talking Washington through improbable labyrinths of fiscal policy. And never mind the fact that there was no danger, no threats anywhere in the surrounding area. Hamilton couldn’t rest easy until Washington completed his mission, and now, here in his general’s bed, it’s no wonder exhaustion finally caught up with him and kept him down all night.

He certainly doesn’t regret it if it means waking up like this. Protected, warm, held loosely but intimately in the circle of powerful arms. His back presses soundly to Washington’s chest, and his general’s breath is steady and quiet in his ears.

Hamilton has only experienced one other morning like this, but he remembers it more vividly for the mix of panic and relief—the emotional whiplash of learning Washington wasn’t dead—than for any physical impressions. He allows himself to savor the sensations for a time now. Calmer, quieter, able to truly enjoy the uncomplicated warmth in his chest. This time there is no crisis. There is only Washington holding him, sleeping willingly beside him, and it’s more than Hamilton would ever have dreamed a few short months ago.

The last time Hamilton woke like this, he barely dared to breathe for fear of breaking the spell.

Things feel somehow less tenuous now, and Hamilton finally gives in to his own restlessness and _moves_. He turns in place without extricating himself from the blankets. He wants to be closer.

He wants _more_.

When he settles, facing his general, still tucked securely inside the circle of muscular arms, he finds Washington blinking sleep-bleary eyes. Rousing without hurry and giving no hint of surprise at finding Hamilton in his bed.

“Good morning,” Washington says softly. Then, heavy with chiding affection, “Did you sleep _at all_ while I was absent from the ship?”

“A little.” Hamilton shrugs one shoulder beneath the blankets. “I never shirked my responsibilities.”

“That is _not_ why I asked,” Washington says, not bothering to mask his exasperation.

“You’re back,” Hamilton observes unnecessarily. “I’m glad.”

Washington’s brow furrows faintly, but there’s no hint of anger when he asks, “Did you intend to wait for me here?”

“Of course I did. You think I _accidentally_ broke into your quarters last night?” He can feel redness flushing his cheeks, but he stubbornly, defiantly meets Washington’s eyes.

Hamilton’s heart is beating faster with every moment Washington _doesn’t_ push him away. God, there are so many things he wants, and Washington’s proximity is enough to overwhelm his senses.

He inhales—slow and steadying—then eases forward into his general’s space.

He half expects Washington to avoid him, and the rush of anticipation beneath his skin is inevitably counterbalanced by the necessity of bracing himself for disappointment. But Washington holds still through the cautious approach, and closes his eyes when Hamilton’s mouth finds his. Careful. Hopeful. This moment feels impossibly tenuous, and Hamilton can’t help fearing it will shatter.

As Washington accepts the kiss, Hamilton grows bolder. He presses more insistently into Washington’s arms, turning every touch hungrier. Pleading without words.

For the span of about forty seconds he thinks they are finally on the same page. Washington is holding him so tightly, and there’s something almost desperate in the strength of those hands.

Then Washington withdraws, so smoothly Hamilton almost doubts his senses. From holding Hamilton like something precious to retreating from the bed completely, no transition between the two. There’s no hint of surprise or distress on his face, no new tension in the line of his shoulders as he stands. Nothing but calm resignation as he removes himself from Hamilton’s arms without explanation.

Then again, Hamilton does not need an explanation to guess what’s going on in his general’s head. It’s the same stubborn hypocrisy that has stopped him from touching Hamilton so many times already, and Hamilton pushes onto his elbows as he stares up at Washington in unvarnished frustration.

“Are you fucking _kidding me_?”

“Alexander—”

Before Washington can offer excuses, Hamilton’s comm badge chirps, followed by Angelica Schuyler’s voice.

Hamilton has to get out of bed to collect his comm. He does his best not to let frustration bleed into his voice as he answers, or as he agrees to report for his duty shift three hours ahead of schedule to cover for a sick lieutenant. He’s silent when the line goes dead.

Washington is equally quiet behind him, and Hamilton swallows past the hurt tightening his throat. This isn’t the time. They can’t do this right now, no matter how desperate he is to finish their conversation.

“I have to leave,” he says, and his voice sounds thick and wrong to his own ears.

“Alexander—”

“I need to be on the bridge in ten minutes.”

“ _Alexander_.”

Hamilton closes his eyes and draws a hard breath before turning and looking his general in the face. He doesn’t know how to interpret the complicated expression he finds there.

“I’m sorry,” Washington murmurs.

For once in his stubborn life, Hamilton has no idea what to say.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Responsibility, Meaning, Area
> 
> I also hang out **[over on Dreamwidth](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/)** , if you'd like to find me. (And have set up a **[Hamilton/Washington Community](https://whamilton.dreamwidth.org/)** over there, just a heads up to anyone who might be interested :)


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